


Muffing

by brownbot5k



Series: Pretty Girls with Good Manners [13]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, Don't Ask Don't Tell, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Morning Sex, Possessive Behavior, Sleepy Sex, Trans Female Character, Workplace Relationship, muffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownbot5k/pseuds/brownbot5k
Summary: Grace doesn’t have words for what she wants, but she knows she wants Bob's pretty hands inside her.  And now that a lot of forbidden things are everyday joys, she decides to ask for it.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Pretty Girls with Good Manners [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2005243
Kudos: 5





	Muffing

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last one. Thanks for the ride.

It seems like after something that serious, they’d throw their bags into Grey’s car and drive off that very night, but it doesn’t work that way. A lot needs to be done first. They need to plan their escape, prepare their financials, prevent splash damage. Some of their cases can be dropped without care, but others would lead to vulnerable people getting hurt, more than Grey will accept, so their workload has to be dealt with in a way that won’t draw suspicion. (That proves to be the easy part—after all, the PIN wants Grey out of the field and are happy to wean her off.) They can’t tell anybody, not even Jenny or Larkin. When Bob and Grey leave, the fizzies will surely round everyone up, and ignorance is their best protection.

Bob is impatient, but he defers to Grey’s expertise… especially once he finds out what her filing cabinets are for.

“You’ve kept everything they’ve given you? Since 1976?”

All those policy changes, memos, and scribbles help her and Bob build a more thorough understanding of their workplace and its behavior. As they dig into the papers and Grey starts explaining what she remembers of the context (and the jargon), Bob gets more and more interested in the rest of it.

“I don’t believe this,” he says from the floor, surrounded by piles of paper. “Grace, you have the exact notice where our memories become government property, long before the Patriot Act made it free wire-tapping. All this time, you’ve had their downfall in your damn filing cabinets!” He looks up at her. “I want to go public with this. May I?”

Grey has to think about it, and Bob waits. When she says yes, he starts spending all his nights at her apartment, shuffling paper, taking notes. She gets used to his sticky note tables and timelines on the walls, falling asleep to him clacking away on his laptop. When he worries his writing isn’t clear, he asks her, and sometimes she catches mistakes he’s made. Other times, in their argument over how best to do something, they find a new, better way. It’s just as well that the escape plan takes months; this write-up dwarfs the one about Eugene Smedley. (Though Bob draws on those skills: “I can’t believe that piss-ant taught me something. Thanks, Eugene.”)

They finish clearing out Bob’s belongings and when his lease ends, he moves in with her and helps her clean out her stuff. Ideally, they’ll whittle it down to one van load. They start being careful at work again, but it doesn’t grate like before. If all goes well, soon they’ll never have to do it again.

Besides. On an ordinary day, Bob is golden. When he’s pursuing a beloved important goal, he’s incandescent. (Though he insists that Grey is the one letting herself off the leash.)

One weekend morning, Grey wakes up to find the bed empty. When she investigates, she finds Bob at the kitchen table with his laptop and scanner, surrounded by paper. When he sees her, he looks chagrined, checks his watch.

She leans on the doorframe and crosses her arms mock-disapprovingly.

“I had a good reason,” Bob protests. His voice is fuzzy. “Come see.”

She shakes her head but takes her reading glasses from his hand. Bob grins, slumps against the back of his chair, and flops a hand at the screen:

“It’s done. Well, this draft.” He stretches with a crackle and pop.

She undoes his collar and starts feeling down his neck and back. Bob knows better. He’s not twenty-five anymore either.

“320 pages, not including the bibliography. I haven’t even counted all the sources I’ve scanned, transcribed, and backed up,” Bob says as she goes down his shirt and starts to rub. “Even if we have to cut and run tomorrow, we have everything… mmm, what’s that for? Have I been good?”

She nods, kisses his neck, and he purrs and goes loose under her hands.

“Best girl,” he declares groggily and closes his eyes.

She rubs him down, kneads the knots out of his shoulders, then pats him so he’ll open his eyes and see her sign, “Go to bed, Bob.”

“Sure.” He gets up and kisses her. “Come with me.”

Grey laughs and lets him back her against the wall, but when his mustache tickles her neck, her breath catches. “You’re half-asleep.”

“I’m not all asleep,” he croons, his voice rough with fatigue. “And I want to celebrate, preferably by fucking you,” hip roll, “nice…”

From day one, Grey’s known that Bob wants inside her; he gets filthily honest in bed. But her body hasn’t been cooperating, no matter how badly she aches for it.

But she doesn’t have to take him in her ass.

Before, she was too ashamed to ask, but now a lot of forbidden things are everyday joys. The only words she has for what she wants are disdainful and stuffy, from a copy of Human Sexual Pathology (“perverse invagination of the inguinal canals”), but being with Bob, she doesn’t have to use words if they don’t suit her.

And she wants it. She wants Bob’s pretty hands inside her.

So she signs, “something I want.”

Bob makes a pleased, sleepy sound. “Show me.”

Grey’s first couple apartments had baths like coffins with showerheads—unusable in times of injury, she discovered. When she got this apartment, too big and with lousy lines of sight to the door, she chose it for its big bath with grab-bar and room for an extra-large stool, which now has more pleasant uses. Bob sits on the toilet, watching. Grey sits on the stool so she can spread her legs for better viewing, swallows, and reaches down to touch herself.

Since the accident, her clit is mostly numb, except for deep pressure and pain, but when she moves it out of the way, the unscarred side of her labia is okay. She plays with herself, warming under Bob’s eyes, feeling the heat rise in her face. She can see Bob working to still his hands, look but not touch.

Grey curves her fingers into position and slides them up into herself, sending an electric surge up her spine.

Bob leans forward, grabs his glasses off the counter. “Do that again.”

Grey does, biting her lip to stay silent, but those passageways of her body aren’t visibly obvious, and Bob still looks puzzled.

“Can I…?” He reaches forward.

She’s starting to breathe hard now. She nods, takes Bob’s hand and puts it over hers so he can feel what she’s doing. It’s all she can do not to curl his fingers into place and start fucking herself with them. As it is, she keeps moving her fingers in and out of herself, pushing her hips into it a little. 

Now Bob understands. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he breathes. “Mine are way too sensitive; I’d die…”

He doesn’t look repulsed or disgusted. He looks delighted at his new and wondrous discovery. Like of course Grey would enjoy this, why wouldn’t she?

“That doesn’t hurt?”

Grey shakes her head, even though the full sensation could be described as achingly good, like a deep stretch, a hard workout, Bob’s teeth in her shoulder and his nails in her back.

“Can you come like that?”

Grey chuckles breathlessly, nods. Oh yes, she can come like this. It was her favorite way as a child and again after the accident. Delicious shivers are going up her back now, making the yearning ache worse; it’s not her hands she wants.

Grey stops, pulls her fingers out of herself, and tugs Bob’s hand.

“Do this to me?” She signs. “Please?”

Bob’s expression is molten. He makes a sound like he’s trying to keep control and not just shove her against the wall. “Such a polite girl I have,” he says in that dark velvet voice, and gets up.

There’s no need for Bob’s glasses; he won’t be in a position to see anything. He puts them back on the counter and joins Grey on the shower stool, pressing against her back and sliding a hand down her front, following the edge of sensation with his fingertips. Grey pushes against it. She’s ached for this for years, she just never thought she’d find someone willing, never mind someone like Bob who’s breathing shivery and fast against her neck, whose belly fits perfectly into the curve of her back and whose clever, soft, beautiful hands—

Both are sliding into position now, toying with her. “Can you take both?” Bob purrs in her ear.

Grey squirms; she can, and oh, she wants, but the scarred side is finicky, not something Bob should attempt on a first go, so she pulls that hand away and signs, “Later.”

Bob doesn’t protest. He toys with the edges of her scars, where the numbness gives over to sensitivity. “Lead on.”

It takes a few tries, since Bob’s never done it before and Grey’s never had someone to do it with. For a moment, she thinks she’ll have to get things in position herself, but then Bob traces the route of Grey’s G-spot into her body, follows it up, and—

Yes. Oh, yes. Finally.

The noise Grey makes and the way she jerks must resemble pain, because Bob stops and asks, “twenty?” in a ragged voice. Like it’s taking everything he has to keep still and not fuck her senseless like he’s been promising for a year.

Grey squeezes for yes, and Bob starts moving, ginger at first, then with building confidence as he maps the territory. The world disappears except for Bob’s belly against her back, his thighs against hers, his mouth against her neck, his fingers coaxing Grey’s body into fucking itself—

Not enough. “More?” she signs. “Please?”

Two are a challenge, but in the best way, the achingly perfect way, just on the edge of too much and settling into just right. Perfect, Bob’s hands are perfect, Grey’s been dreaming about them forever, stroking inside her all nerves and sensation. She’s full of him, electric, a gossamer weave of sparks and fire inside her like ecstatic architecture.

When Bob starts using the rest of his hand to grope and fondle, he has to clap his free hand over Grey’s mouth because words are gone but sound isn’t, not with Bob unlocking her from the inside out. It might look like Bob’s trying to silence her, but really, it’s the reverse; he’s giving her permission to be as loud as she wants, permission to let loose and not worry about the neighbors, and Grey obeys. She doesn’t even recognize the sounds she’s making.

And Bob, who can’t stop talking, isn’t saying a word. He’s focused entirely on what he’s doing, gasping against Grey’s skin when she pushes against him and gets his cock where she wants it. Bob thrusts, and Grey mindlessly grinds back against him, trying to get as much as she can. The tension is throbbing, looming in the dark behind her eyelids, about to burst, Grey almost doesn’t want it to, it’s perfect, it’s everything—Bob’s hand over her mouth, Bob’s cock against her ass, Bob’s fingers inside her so deep, so close, oh please—

Bob pulls his hand from Grey’s mouth, shoves it hard between her legs.

“Thank you!” Grey blurts, and the orgasm hits like a spiderweb of lightning radiating from Bob’s hands. The intensity brings tears to her eyes and lasts for a seeming eternity before she comes down, shivering and spasmodic. When she goes limp, Bob slides his fingers out of her with reluctance, especially when it makes Grey shudder and whimper.

“Wow,” Bob pants. “Okay. That was hot.”

Grey laughs and sighs, leaning back on Bob to get her breath back. He’s still hard. “Okay?” she asks with her hands. “Can’t take you this way.”

“I don’t know,” Bob says, fingertips dancing on her hip, “you took me just fine.” Pause. “You know you don’t have to thank me, right?”

Grey shrugs. “I like to,” she signs.

“Good. Never stop.” Bob nuzzles the back of Grey’s neck. “I like pretty girls with good manners.” He makes it sound filthy in the best way. 

Grey gets up and reaches for him, but Bob stands up and pulls her close.

“Here, let me…” his cock slides between Grey’s thighs.

Normally, Grey moves too much to be any good this way, but now she’s relaxed, happy to hold Bob and squeeze her thighs together just right. Bob barely manages to bite her and purr, “mine,” before coming down her thighs, and she pets him, holds him up, and rubs her cheek against his hair.

“Okay,” Bob says after a while. “Now I really do need to sleep.”

Grey laughs and goes back to bed with him. There will be other mornings to run.


End file.
